


Number List Collection 1

by Maybethings



Series: May Be Promptin' [96]
Category: Dragon Age, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Brothels, Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Gen, Number List, Prompt Fic, Qunari fish sauce, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/pseuds/Maybethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Round One of a number list challenge (a list of 15 characters, the names of whom are not revealed, from which prompts are made.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carver, Arishok, f!Brosca, Sten, dinner party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Carver] and [the Arishok] have to make dinner for a party with [Theramina Brosca] and [Sten]. What do they make, what's the state of the kitchen when they're done, and what do their guests think of the food?

"I don't see why they gave _us_  cooking duty," Carver grumbled.

"You complain much and yet do little,  _bas_ ," the Arishok responded coolly, testing the weight and heft of each knife in the kitchen. They were all in various states of imbalance, but they would have to suffice. "Hawke tells me you wield a sword."

Carver tilted his chin upward, equal parts proud and curious. "What of it?"

"Put your skills to use and chop up these vegetables."

"Brilliant. You think I'm only fit to cut carrots."

"Lettuce, also."

An angry gleam crept into Carver's eyes. "Bet you I could do better than you, anyway.  _Ham-hands_."

The Arishok's glower deepened impressively. "Is that a challenge,  _kabethari_?"

* * *

"Not even a steak or something?  _Really_ , guys? You're feeding a Grey Warden here. AND a Sten of the Beresaad."

"Are we sheep, that there is nothing to eat but shredded vegetables?" The kossith kept his words uninflected and calm, out of respect for his supreme leader, but Carver went red from collar to hairline nevertheless.

He'd won, anyhow, and that was what counted. Even if all they had to show for the dinner now were five large bowls of jullienned greens, a pot of mashed potatoes and a kitchen covered in vegetable peel.

"There is...something else," he offered.

"Please, please let it be roast nug."

"Not quite." Carver produced a tray of sugar cookies, artfully decorated to resemble the Qun sigil. "Thought you might like dessert, at least."

"...Are they forgiven, kadan?" Theramina asked, her eyes flicking to Sten.

"It is a start."


	2. Taarbas, Arishok, Merrill, dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Taarbas] and [Arishok] go on a date. What kinds of shenanigans happen? What is [Merrill]'s reaction to the date?

“Permission to speak freely, Arishok?” Taarbas said quietly in Qunlat.

“It is granted.”

“We look _ridiculous_.”

“Patience, Taarbas. The thief was last sighted here. It will return.”

“Are you waiting for someone?” a voice said behind them, the words a musical lilt.

With surprising speed for their bulk, both kossith were up on their feet with weapons drawn, staring the pint-sized elf down. She merely regarded them with head canted to one side, large green eyes curious and bright. “Or maybe it’s a something. Is it dangerous? A dragon? I should warn the clan, if it is. They might not listen to me, but I’ll have a better chance at it than you.”

“We wait for no man,” Taarbas responded quickly in Common. And honestly. In a sense.

“But if you’re not waiting, then…ohhh!” Merrill let out a sound that was past gasp, part scream. “I think I understand now. There’s no better place on the Coast, you know, to view the sunset.”

“Enough, elf—” the Arishok began as the pieces started falling into place between his horns.

“I’ll make sure nobody disturbs you, don’t you worry! Oh, Isabela will be so _thrilled_ to hear this! Goodbye! Have fun!” She ran off before either man had a chance to respond.

“I _told_ you we looked ridiculous,” Taarbas muttered. Two full beats of silence passed. “Did she say…Isabela?”

“Indeed. If we cannot catch the thief here, then we will find her through that elf,” the Arishok growled. “But…another day. The sun is setting.”

They made haste to return to camp, but Taarbas couldn’t help thinking that it _was_ a very beautiful sunset that day.


	3. Carver, Arishok, f!Brosca, Sten, dinner party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is [Taarbas] afraid of [Isabela]?

Taarbas sees Isabela as the result of rebellion—freedom uncontrolled. The tide moves all things; some are tossed in the foam, without direction. Some move with it. And some are torn apart by it even as they believe they swim through unmolested. Isabela is the last. She is, to be sure, a proud ship, wicked and gleaming golden even in a terrible storm. But one day, she will sink below the surface, unmoored, with no destination.

He pities her, as much as he fears becoming her.


	4. f!Brosca, Isabela, drunk sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do [Natia Brosca] and [Isabela] end up in bed together? And how do they react in the morning?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the [Grey Warden/Short Taarbas](http://archiveofourown.org/series/16723) timeline.

Natia is not used to topside ale. Sitting down at a table with Isabela, she's certain, is suicide--but the pirate has been in Denerim, and on the surface, for much longer than she has. Any information she can wangle out of her on the Blight and the city will be useful.

She vaguely remembers the sixth mug of brew, and a soft bed, and an incredibly vivid dream about tumbling Sten. Fingers everywhere. Teeth. Nails. Moaning. Waves of pleasure carry her out of consciousness, and then waft her back into it.

She wakes in a room that smells of the ocean and metal and a heady perfume, and Isabela gazing down at her. One of the most beautiful breasts the dwarf has ever seen peeks casually over the bedspread.

"It's not nice to yell another man's name in a girl's bed, sweet thing," she says.

"Oh, Paragon's _balls_ ," moans Natia. She cups her hands over her face, ass clenching in mortification. "Sorry. I must have gotten carried away last night."

"I might even have been offended, if you didn't give back as good as you get." Isabela brushes one finger down the length of the Warden's nose. "You're also a fantastic kisser. But maybe you should be kissing the big guy out there instead of me."

"Heh." Natia wriggles out of the covers, almost sorry to leave them. "One of us will have to be dying first, probably."


	5. Carver, Ketojan, Desire Demon, dinner is ruined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Carver], [Ketojan], and [a Desire Demon] go out to dinner together. Where do they go, what do they order, and what ruins dinner?

“Just once, can’t we have one meal just once without magic cocking things up!?” Carver growls, hands curled tight around his sword.

The Desire Demon smiles winsomely at Carver and Ketojan, but its strange, jagged gold pupils detract from the effect somewhat. “Why so stubborn, Hawke?” she purrs. “I only want to help you. You deserve more than black bread and cheese, and the shadow of your brother. Imagine: glory, and Lothering’s winter ham and beer whenever you want it.” She—it?—turns to the Qunari mage. “And for you, a return to your people, unmolested, respected—and that strange grain of your people, cooked in bacon fat, sprinkled with that fish sauce you once tasted, when you were still a boy…”

Ketojan makes a wet growling sound and raises both manacled hands, a jagged sphere of electricity building between them. Carver boots Hawke into consciousness where he lies snoring, and charges the Demon with his blade high.


	6. Donnic, Petrice, musical tryouts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Donnic] and [Petrice] are auditioning for the same part in a musical production. This might be a make or break opportunity for them, yet they have fierce competition from each other. Spin us a tale of the rivalry!

He needed this. Donnic Henderson was no scholar, not much of an athlete (he wrestled, but slowly and ponderously), and no great mind. But he knew one thing: when he opened his mouth, he could make people stop, listen, laugh and cry. And he intended to prove his worth. Not just for Aveline, or Kirkwall HS 93, but for himself.

There was only one problem: Petrice Eifert.

He had worked with Petrice, back when he thought her to be nothing more than another well-spoken, religious girl, the president of the school's Chastity Circle. He found her to also be steel and thorns and stone and oily persuasion--a shrewd, unyielding force in her pursuit of a goal, and willing to trample anyone down to do it. She wanted the part of Valjean, another shining achievement in a long line of others she'd won with blood and sweat and sabotage. He'd never considered anything but that role.

She'd slipped ants in his sports bottle, sent her posse to intimidate him. He'd replaced her smoky, frankincense-like deodorant with a store brand and watched her break out in a week-long rash.

But now they stood alone on the stage, slightly more scarred, and Mr. Tethras sat with Ms. Seeker, pens and paper at the ready. Petrice stepped back and smirked as the final notes of "Bring Him Home" died away. She flicked a scornful glance at Donnic, as if to say  _you can't beat that_.

He was pretty sure he still could.

"Whenever you're ready, Don," Mr. Tethras drawled. Donnic stepped forward, mouth dry, heart pounding like a drum. A deep breath. Aveline sits above, hands pressed together tensely before her lips. One row behind sits one of Petrice's 'Templars'--Varnell, her favourite. He begins.

_"He thinks that man is me!  
_ _He knew him at a glance!..."_


	7. Donnic, Arishok, Alistair, prom night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Donnic], [Arishok], and [Alistair] go to the prom together.

Donnic can’t stop staring at Arishok. Neither can Alistair. “There’s no way we’re competing with that,” the blonde groans quietly, and he nods, rubbing his chin. He shaved not two hours ago, before he went to see Aveline and her broken leg in the hospital, yet already his chin feels like Kirkwallian sandstone.

All three dateless men may have arrived at prom together, but Aris is miles apart from the two. Never mind that the exchange student is taller and broader than both of them combined; he’s plaited his hair in an exceedingly intricate yet masculine manner, and instead of a tux he’s wearing some traditional-looking formal garment that nevertheless manages to accentuate his powerful build. There’s no hope now, especially with the way the Hawke girl across the room is making eyes at the kossith over a cup of punch.

“We might as well dance,” sighs Donnic, pushing off from the wall. He wishes he was back at the hospital with Aveline, drinking Kool-Aid and laughing at a sitcom—but she wanted him here, so here he is. “Party Rock, anyone?”

“Every day Remigoldin’,” Alistair agrees, and takes to the floor with unreasonable enthusiasm.


	8. Alistair, Ketojan, strip club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Alistair] and [Ketojan] go to a strip club.

“Why are we even here?” Alistair moans as the lights flash and the bass beats to a humpworthy tempo, passing a hand over his face. The kossith growls, and Alistair is not sure if he is expressing his agreement, disapproval, or amusement.

* * *

Three ales and a porter later, Alistair is right up on stage with the other dancers, oiled and flushed and gyrating like a pro. Ketojan just claps a hand over his face, his nails going _chunk_ against his broken mask, and decides that death in the Qun is _eminently_ more preferable than witnessing this corruption.


End file.
